her next story

I slip a bit of myself in there most times. That’s what we’re all doing is it not. Slipping in bits and pieces of our lives, our fantasies, our flesh until the blur moves to the horizon and even we can’t tell the difference anymore. Dabbling in these paper people, these false frontmen moving them like dubious puppeteers. Magnets under the board pushing plastic cars. There is the moment I wake if I’ve slept through the night where I still believe in the newness of the day. If I collect enough words or pencils to capture the hype of my heart–I throw it down on the mat and pin it. Wrestling has its advantages. Too many people in your head wilding, maybe it’s why Einstein married his cousin. Too much fucking work finding someone who gets you like you want to be gotten.

If I’ve done the job with a modicum of success you don’t know who I am. If you do–that would be a fright as I’m waiting to get the last few body parts retrofit. The garrulous quotation monsters of the universe are landing on the planet. Squatters. They want us to jump into their pastel bucket of cute puppies and happiness. Decent singular words chained to chemical cheese sauce and numb baby faces before applause and acne make them vomit. Why can’t I remember being something other than the person I think I am now? An African albino claw frog in my past life. Had two and they smelled like crap. They made me laugh though. Looked like chicken breasts with pink eyes on their heads instead of top hats. And where the fuck is the pastel bucket to jump into if I decide to hang it up and go happy?

Her files keep people living inside folders. She is trying to earwig you. Her fingers ill-timed to give out any gold stars today. She wants you to know her in the deepest way possible. Can words do that? She speaks in singular form first person. You are to think she is divulging her shit. She is a liar. Manipulation is something gotten from words. She likes sliding them around one another-allowing them to touch before pulling them apart and killing their spirit. If their souls survive the mat they might be her next story.

scar glasses

scar glasses

sketched with pen on printer paper while on a subbing break last year-thank you


10 thoughts on “her next story

  1. It’s surprising what our characters emerge as, usually. And it is often fun to watch it happen. But I hate the ‘work’ part, of slipping in and out of each one as they move through the story. Exhausting. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh, Miss AM. You are so smart about this “writing stuff.”
    “… until the blur moves to the horizon and even we can’t tell the difference anymore” — I love that, and it’s so true, so true. Sometimes I forget if things really happened the way I wrote them, or if they happened some other way. What exactly is the “truth”?
    And I didn’t know Einstein married his cousin (the other night Dolly Parton joked about how her mother was adamant they not date their kin), and funny as that is, the seriousness of your enlightened comment is that really all that any of us wants is to find someone who “gets us.” It’s why people write, cover canvases with paint, compose symphonies.
    Your words have earwigged plenty of readers, just as your book of poems soon will. You, Miss, are a writer. Lucky you.
    (A great artist, too.)
    Happy winey Friday evening! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    • DS
      yes, Albert was a kissin’ cuzin
      I’m thinking a know that bit of trivia from way back when Caroline was fascinated by all things Einstein
      you know, I literally had 3 other writing ideas I was going to pursue then defaulted to this which started out as gibberish. I tried to pull some connections through the piece as I wrote it hoping to make it sound less rambling.
      I truly and humbly appreciate you thoughtful words here

      Liked by 1 person

      • Wow, Caroline was fascinated by Einstein! That’s pretty fantastic. Most kids get hung up on the Beastie Boys (I know I just dated myself dropping that band name). Your “default” was your readers’ good fortune. The connections all resonate, ringing clear as bells on a cold Christmas morn when logs are on the fire and snowflakes dance in the air and I’m just writing this thought out, riffing, but mentioning Christmas ’cause I know you’re a “holiday chick.” 😉 Seriously though, I like this piece, AM, like it a lot.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Hey, AM!
    I re-read this post today (Saturday) and wanted to add 2 things to my “comment”:
    1. This is very philosophical, very “thinky,” and I like it a lot! The AM mind on the page again.
    2. Your description of the frog has seared an image–made a “wordwig”–that will never leave me, has actually haunted me, and frankly I don’t think I’d ever want to look at one of these creatures … But the point is, “chicken breasts with red eyes on their heads” is a marvelous description. Your words lodge, is what I’m saying.

    Liked by 1 person

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